


M.I.A.

by BlazeRiddle



Series: M.I.A. [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Mary's Not Good, Multi, Sherlock's a good brother, Sherrinford-oriented, descriptions of rape, descriptions of violence, just call it my ideas for season 4, schizophrenic peeps, songfic-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 11:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5045989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hello Dolly,......well, hello, Dolly</i>
  <br/>
  <i>It's so nice to have you back where you belong</i>
  <br/>
  <i>You're lookin' swell, Dolly.......I can tell, Dolly</i>
  <br/>
  <i>You're still glowin'...you're still crowin'...you're still goin' strong</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>((Or, how the world changes in five years))</p>
            </blockquote>





	M.I.A.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to state that I know nothing of England, the workings of Interpol and Europol, smuggling, or the Britisch law system. Just so you know.

When you're smiling

When you're smiling  
The whole world smiles with you  
And when you're laughing

When you're laughing  
The sun comes shining through  
  
But when you're crying you bring on the rain  
So stop your sighing

Be happy again  
Keep on smiling

Cause when you're smiling  
The whole world smiles with you

 

***

 

Sherlock Holmes never really informed anyone that he had siblings. He never told anyone he had a brother simply because usually said brother introduced himself before Sherlock had the chance to shut him out.

With his other sibling, well, things were a bit more complicated.

 

It was a morning, a dreary April morning _After_ , when Sherlock sat in his chair and John stood at the window, stirring his tea and peering down at the street, desperately hoping that some sort of client would come in with an interesting case before Sherlock would go out of his mind with boredom. Someone walked up to the steps to the door, dressed in an oversized hoodie that reached midway to their thighs and what looked like skinny jeans. They walked up the stairs, seemed to hesitate for a moment.

"Client." John reported. "Personal issues." The doorbell rang as he placed down his tea. "I'll go."

Sherlock just hummed, balancing his teaspoon on his nose. John rolled his eyes and bounded down the stairs.

When he opened the door, though, he glanced back to make sure that the man hadn't somehow snuck past him to try a new disguise. Before him, dressed in a ratty oversized hoodie and torn jeans, was a woman, about his height, with marble-pale skin, dark, slightly wrong-looking cupid bow lips, and long lark lashes and brows framing big, multicoloured eyes. Those eyes, though, when they looked up at him, were filled with... _something_ that made his heart clench.

"Is this... Does Sherlock Holmes live here?"

"Yeah." John stepped to the side to let her in, "He's upstairs. Do you have a case-" He fell silent as he watched her stumble up the stairs, unbalanced and clumsy but definitely determined, pulling off her hood and revealing a messy bunch of long, dark curls. John rushed to follow her upstairs.

Sherlock was already standing to see what the commotion was about, and gasped as the woman walked through the door. She stumbled to him, dropped to her knees and fisted his trouser leg in her hands.

"Sherlock. I'm-" She shook her head frantically. "I'm so sorry." Her body went slack as consciousness left her mind.

John stared at the whole thing. "What-"

Sherlock cleared his throat and carefully placed a hand on the woman's wild curls. "John, meet my sister, Sherrinford Holmes."

 

***

 

John didn't say anything. He wanted to yell at his friend, ask him why he hadn't known, but he managed to keep it in. Now was not the time, he knew, so he kneeled next to the woman -noticing bruises on her neck he hadn't seen before- and tried lifting her up. She went surprisingly easy for someone out cold.

"You can place her on my bed." Sherlock suggested, carding a hand through his hair, worry tainting his face. "You can- Check her out there. Maybe." _Please._ John could hear the suppressed desperation in his voice, and nodded.

"Of course." He smiled at Sherlock before he moved to his friend's room.

The check-up was done quickly, but it revealed more than John had feared. Sherrinford seemed to have bruises all over her body, was terribly malnourished and dehydrated, had at least two broken ribs and -shockingly- finger-shaped bruises on her hips. He didn't dare to go look further, it was clear to him; the woman needed an hospital. But how to convince Sherlock to-

"How bad is it?" The voice rumbled behind him. He startled and turned to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, looking worried, a first aid kit in his arms.

John sighed. "That's not going to be enough. She needs serious medical attention."

Sherlock nodded, pulled out his phone. "I'll call Mycroft."

"Mycroft..." The woman on the bed groaned. "Sherlock, I-" She coughed and tried to get up, but Sherlock was next to her like a flash, pushing her down. "Shh." He carded a hand through her tangled hair. "Take your time. What is it you want to say?"

"Mycroft. Call... tell him... client. Don't want him to..." She groaned. "Worry. About me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He should. You look like shit."

She smiled, then was taken by a coughing fit. "Point taken. Might want to hurry, though. Feel like something is about to puncture my lung."

Sherlock nodded, smiling down at her before leaving the room. She closed her eyes.

"You have questions, doctor." She mumbled. John seated himself on the edge of the bed.

"You shouldn't talk too much right now." He let his eyes roam over the new face. "It can wait."

She nodded. "Don't be... don't be angry at my brother for... me. It's not in any way... his fault. In any way."

John nodded, wondering what in the world was going on.

 

Outside the room, Sherlock waited anxiously for his brother to pick up.

"Mycroft." He said, the moment the call connected. "She's back. She's... back."

 

***

 

She wasn't wheeled off to the hospital like John had expected or hoped. Instead, a fancy doctor came in, checked her in private, gave her an IV with saline and some medication, and left. Mycroft stayed, standing at the foot of the  bed where she was drifting in and out of consciousness, his umbrella rested at his side.

"You still use that thing?" A small smile played on her lips. "It's ridiculous."

"What on earth have you been up to, Sherrinford?" He breathed. She sighed.

"My old apartment." She rasped. "The files are... are hidden there."

He nodded, taking his umbrella in hand. "I will send-"

"No." She shook her head fiercely, then winched and stilled. "Don't- just go yourself. Please."

He watched her for a long moment. "Of course." He moved, came to sit next to her on the bed. "I'm glad you're back."

"I-" She swallowed, moved her hand to brush past his leg. "Me too." She tried to sit up a bit, but stopped at Mycroft's stern gaze. "You need to- Can you promise me something?"

"Not unless I know what it is." Mycroft rested the umbrella against the bed. She turned her head and managed to look him in the eyes.

"You have to- the files, they're... evidence. Cases. You have to- need to- please, finish it."

"Of course." Mycroft smiled thinly before he stood. "Sleep, now. I will inform Mummy and Father that you're back."

"Thank you, Mycroft." She closed her eyes as he moved to leave the room. In the doorway, though, he paused.

"Sherrinford?"

"Hm?"

"What about _him_?"

She shrugged as much as she could. "I don't know." She sighed. "I just don't know."

She allowed herself to fall asleep as he left the building.

 

***

 

Two days later, John carefully made his way up the stairs with the baby carrier. He had no idea how his new bedridden patient would react to the little girl, but he couldn't let his precious daughter stay any longer with _her_ than necessary.

Besides, Sherlock seemed to like her.

The detective was calmer when his little princess was around, more upbeat. He loved having the little one near as he worked on (non-explosive, as per John's order) experiments, talking to her and cataloguing her reactions, even though she was only three months old. He had an exact timetable for the feeding times, oftentimes using his own insomnia to their advantage. He would place her on his chest as he spent time in his mind palace, never too far down in case she would somehow squirm off of him and maybe fall off the couch.

Yes, Sherlock liked her.

His sister wouldn't be _much_ different, right?

Even though for the past two days the woman had drifting been in and out of consciousness continuously, he'd learned that she and her brother were very alike. Her intelligent eyes scanned everything and everyone that entered the bedroom and John _knew_ she'd deduced over half of his history already. She was getting restless, too, getting agitated at the bed rest her broken body forced her to take. She was _softer_ than her brother, though, somehow, but that could've been the drugs running through her body slowing everything down.

He rather liked her.

Noting that Sherlock was out, he made his way to the bedroom and knocked on the open door.

"I'm awake." She grumbled, not even bothering to open her eyes. "Who's you little friend?"

"How did you- never mind." He walked into the room and placed the carrier at the foot of the bed before taking his daughter out. She struggled to get a bit more upright and look at them.

"Your tread was different, as if you were carrying something substantial. Rustling of cloths, so something squirming, either a puppy or a baby. Sherlock would've told me if you were buying a dog. He would be bouncing off the walls."

John chuckled and moved to sit next to her with his squirming baby. "Meet Madelyn Watson, my daughter."

She smiled down at the little bundle. "She's amazing. Beautiful."

"Yeah." He looked down at the little face, a bittersweet air still surrounding him, even after three months. She, of course, noticed.

"How are you dealing with it all?" She looked genuinely worried, her normally wrinkle-less face scrunched up in a frown. "Must be hard on you, as well."

"It is." John sighed. "It's hard imagining that someone so amazing came from- well, you know, probably."

"I know your not-yet-ex-wife shot my brother and that you don't trust her with your daughter."

"That's all?" John asked, surprised. "I figured, with all the deductions and all..."

She shrugged, holding up her hand with the IV. "I'm a little out of it, you'll have to forgive me." She watched the way the tendons on her hands stood out. "Odd, isn't it? The way the brain works. I can't deduce much when I'm high, you can't fathom how you're going to raise an angel born from a devil alone. Then again, maybe I'm just keeping things silent and you're not really alone, are you?"

"What do you mean?" John carefully placed his daughter in her lap and started checking her bruises. "I know I'm officially still married, but-"

She sighed and trailed a finger over the little girl's cheek. "If you don't know what I mean, I'm not going to tell you." The outside door slammed shut and someone bounded up the stairs before throwing the apartment door open and shouting "John!!" Sherrinford gave him a meaningful glance he didn't quite understand and loosely cradled the baby in her arms.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, looking extremely happy. He _swished_ in, took Madelyn and kissed her forehead before cradling her against his chest.

"A double locked room murder, John!" He twirled in place, dancing with Maddie in his arms. John looked, awed. It had been a long time since he'd seen the detective so happy.

"I'll go get my coat." He said, standing. On an afterthought, he turned to Sherrinford.

"I'll be fine." She assured. "Go, you two. Bring me a cold case file or something on your way back. _Please._ "

Sherlock smirked at her. "We will." He promised, before he raced down the stairs to ask their landlady to babysit.

 

***

 

 _"John?" voice in the distance._ Fading lights, _blurry_ vision. _"John? I'm sorry, but-_ Oh. _" Woman._ Struggling _to get_ up. _Her?_ Her. _Here. "_ You. _" Smirk._ Sharp teeth. _Evil. "My, my, look_ at _you._ All _battered and_ bruised. _" Run._ Hide. _Scream and cry._ Say completely still. _"Back where you_ want _to_ be _, mmm?" lips. Sultry. Sticky. Gross._ Red lipstick. _Whispers. "Don't you dare tell them." Focus._ Grin.

"Too late."

 _Slap. Anger. Cower._ Stay still. _"I will end you. Kill you both."_

 _Smile._ "Oh, no, Mrs. Watson, you won't."

 _Pillow. Choke. Fight._ Pain. _Ribs. Scream._ Fight.

***

 

They rushed up the stairs, finding Mrs Hudson in half a panic in the living room. She'd called Sherlock, only ten minutes before, crying and saying something about a struggle. Sherlock had abandoned the crime scene without a glance back, or a word to anyone. He'd simply jumped in the back of Lestrade's car, snarling ' _Baker Street, now!_ ' to the befuddled DI. Without asking why, the man had complied, giving John just enough time to jump in the car before it sped off.

And now they were here. In passing, John tried to console their landlady, but he was more worried about what he would find in the other room.

Sherlock was already in his bedroom, kneeling by the bed, letting his eyes roam. She was laying spread-eagle on the bed, panting harshly, clutching a pillow to the mattress with one hand. Her eyes shot to the two men entering, though her body didn't move.

"I'm fine." She rasped, though she didn't look it. "I'm alive." Then, she noticed Lestrade. "DI, marital problems. Kids. Hard case, sleep loss. _Fuck_." She groaned. "Turn the morphine back up."

Lestrade quirked an unimpressed brow. "Family of yours, Sherlock?"

"Sister. _For fuck's sake,_ John-" She grit her teeth. Sherlock reached over and turned the dial a bit.

"What happened?"

She shook her head. "Later, I-" She carefully let go of the pillow, and moved her hand to clutch her brother's coat. "Sherlock, we need to talk. We need to- Not now, though." Her grip relaxed a bit. "Shower, first." With a little help, she sat up. "Alone, if the doctor allows it. I need to think."

John stared at her. "What _happened?_ " He repeated the earlier question. She shrugged.

"Nothing of importance to you, though it _would_ make some things easier." She tried standing, but collapsed and sunk back to the bed before Sherlock could catch her.

"I'm sorry, what's going on?" Lestrade frowned. She stood again, succeeding this time, disconnected the IV and staggered his way to hold out her hand. After a moment, he took it.

"Doctor Sherrinford Holmes, Interpol." She quirked a weak smile. "Before you ask, doctor in behavioural sciences and psychology.  Nothing fancy like medicine." She staggered past him, into the bathroom. "Call Mycroft, ask him to bring the files over. I need to tell you something, preferably with police there. Might get yourself some tea in the meanwhile, this is going to be quite a story." She closed both doors. "If I'm not back out in ten minutes, check on me. Make sure I didn't have a heart attack or something."

The shower started.

 

***

 

It was awkward, John decided, waiting for someone to finish showering, sitting in the living room with his landlady, his drinking buddy, his best friend and his best friend's brother. An ominous, thick stack of files lay on the coffee table, in the midst of everything.

Sherlock was eyeing it, undoubtedly deducing what he could about them. No one could know for sure what was in them, though, until they were opened. The detective was burning with morbid curiosity.

The shower shut off.

Moments later, Sherrinford emerged, dressed in Sherlock's pyjama's and drying her hair with a fluffy towel. Mycroft stood, taking a file with him, and handed it to her.

"I found him."

She stared at it for a moment, as if her hands were itching to open it, then seated herself in a desk chair and dropped the file on the table. "Later." She placed the towel in her lap and looked at the people in the room. "I'm sure you all want to hear what I have to say, first." She waited for Mycroft to sit back down, her hands folded. She scraped her throat.

"For most of you who don't know, I work -or used to work- for Interpol. My partner and I were a two-man team, specialised in international crime, crime passing multiple borders. We would trace down so-called crime paths, the routes goods or money take to end up in their destinations, and use that information to take down entire organisations. We were... brilliant at it, if I may say so myself.

Back in two thousand nine Europol contacted us. There was this human trafficking ring, taking young girls and women from Eastern Europe and bringing them to Britain. The whole thing was very mysterious, very shady. No one had any idea what happened to the girls after, only that three women who had turned up dead were supposed to be in Latvia. They weren't even sure it was a crime ring."

"I remember those cases." Lestrade interrupted, "Gruesome. They were beaten to death, right?"

"It appeared so, yes." She nodded. "Though there were signs for long-time abuse. The cases were never solved, were they? Because I was supposed to be the one to solve them." A glimmer of guilt passed through her light eyes before she frowned and her face turned blank.

"Anyway, we took the case. We planned for months. We were supposed to go to Latvia, find the ring, sell me, let me go through the whole shipping process, and then my partner would buy me back once I was back in England. We'd researched, planned everything carefully. I'd let Sherlock and Mycroft know in case something went wrong -which it never did- and we left." She took a few deep breaths. "My partner sold me off in Estonia and they shipped me back to London. In January two thousand ten I was supposed to be sold off to my partner on a black market auction, but..."

"Something went wrong." John breathed.

"Yes. Oliver -my partner- didn't show up. I was bought by someone else. We had emergency plans in place in case it would happen, but for some reason, he didn't initiate any of them. I was sold off, and without resources I was helpless. I've spent my days circling in the scene until I managed to escape about a week ago. I wrote everything down when I could. Sherlock was in the papers a few days later. Front page. Stated his address. I got myself some clothes and prayed that he would still want to see me."

Sherlock went to stand behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. John smiled at the image, the unspoken message clear. _I did_. "Tea?" The detective rumbled. His sister nodded, and he moved to the kitchen.

Mycroft scraped his throat. "This is all _lovely_." He drawled, a thin smile on his face, "But it doesn't explain why you would want the police here, or me, or the files. The arrests will start tomorrow, you don't need a _DI_ for that."

"File... twenty-seven, I think." She said, closing her eyes to think. "It's about a mistress named Amelia Allen. She liked to use me as a way of paying people. There's a list there of people she offered me to, people whom she let make use of me. I didn't figure you'd be able to find her, even when I was with her she changed identities like coats. Virtually untraceable."

"But you found her."

"No." She stood, started pacing as best as she could. "She found me. One of the men she wanted to lend me to was a dealer in intelligence. He took one look at me and linked me to you, Mycroft, and to Sherlock, naturally. He figured a long-lost Interpol agent would make good blackmail material, so he tried blackmailing her. She sold me, erased all traces of her previous identities, and started over again. Maybe she was really going to retire, maybe it was all just a ruse. But the point was that she met someone, fell in love. Got engaged. But then the past caught up with her." She turned dramatically, meeting everyone's eyes. "Sherlock Holmes was alive. It wasn't long after that her blackmailer made himself known, too. It wouldn't be unlike him to leave a message even at her wedding. Amelia knew that her new life was in danger, that if her husband or Sherlock found out what she'd done to me, along with her other crimes, she'd be done for. So, the blackmailer had to die."

John could feel himself pale. "Magnussen... Mary? You- Mary?"

"If that is your wife's name, yes." She nodded. "She went to Magnussen to kill him, but when Sherlock interrupted her she knew he'd be asking questions, that he'd find out if she let him live."

"So she shot me." Sherlock handed her a mug of tea, his hands not quite steady, and seated himself. "Thus creating a brilliant distraction."

"A mind like yours would be able to make up millions of motives." She agreed. "Maybe some of her past crimes would come to light, but never all of them. She'd made sure of that long before she confronted Magnussen. And then you went and killed her blackmailer, and she figured herself safe."

"But what changed?" Lestrade asked, "She doesn't know you're here, right?"

"She didn't." She walked to the kitchen and picked up a big stuffed bumblebee. "John had forgotten Madelyn's favourite plushie and Mary decided to break their unspoken agreement to never show up to drop it off. She found me, high and drugged out of my mind, and tried to smother me with a pillow."

"Right." Mycroft stood. "Mr Lestrade, please feel free to arrest Mrs Watson for attempted murder." He quirked a brow at his sister. "The files?"

She shrugged. "John and Sherlock are free to read through them if they want. Makes them even with you." She turned to Lestrade. "Sir, ms Allen's involvement in several major crimes surely makes her a person of interest for both Europol and Interpol. I'd advise you contact them and take the honour of having found her." She offered him a smile. "After everything my brothers put you through, you deserve a little recognition." She took the lone file from the desk. "I'll be in Sherlock's room."

"I like her." Lestrade decided, nodding. "I really do."

 

***

 

"I don't get it." It was three in the morning, and Sherlock passed through the kitchen to warm the milk for Maddie's bottle when he heard the sound filter through the door. "I don't. We were a team. How can you just go on like you did? Why did you abandon me?"

Silence, then; "Yeah, but you _don't_ , do you? You don't hate me. I'd know."

Sherlock frowned, walked to his bedroom door. Knocked.

"But he was- Come in." She was sitting mostly upright on the bed, the file in his lap. "Sherlock."

Sherlock moved around the bed and sat down next to her, against the headboard, still holding the drinking Maddie in his arms. "Go on." He encouraged. She shrugged, closed her eyes.

"He's gone." She sighed, shook her head, looked at him. "I don't see him anymore."

Sherlock nodded. "You've been off your meds for a long time."

"Yeah." She huffed a laugh. "Strangely enough, it's what kept me sane.  You'd always show up at the right times, or Mycroft, or Oliver... a few times Jean d'Arc was there, too. You made me not give up."

He hummed.

"I never gave you up." He confessed. "You were always coming back."

"I know." She smiled at him. "It's... why I came to you."

"Why you asked me to lie to Mike." He sighed. "I didn't. He was here within minutes."

"Well, with a history of mental illnesses in the family... Your brain would love the irony of making me the first real hallucination." She yawned. "You sleeping here?"

"Give me a minute." He stood and crept upstairs to return the little princess to her crib. As he returned, he closed the door behind him.

 

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You should tell him." She edged a bit closer to him, he wrapped an arm around her.

"He could leave."

"He will never." She curled her fist around the fabric of his shirt. "Not for this."

"How can you know?" He frowned in the darkness. "You barely know him."

She shrugged, tucked her head under his chin. "But you do. And that-" She was interrupted by a yawn, "-Tells me enough about him. He chose you over- over whomever the... she was..."

He rolled his eyes. "Sleep." He sighed, closing his own eyes.

 

***

 

"You're on the news!" John came barging in, only pausing for a moment as he noticed how the two were curled together. Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow, blinking blearily at his friend.

"Wha-" He lifted a hand to wipe away a trace of drool. "John, what-"

Sherrinford complained at the rude awakening with a soft grumble and sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Forgive my brother's eloquence, but he has a point. What the bloody _hell_ gives you reason to wake us at eight-" She frowned at the clock. "Oh. Eight already?"

"Yes." John rolled his eyes at her. "I figured you guys would want to see the news."

"Fine." She jumped out of bed and stretched before turning to Sherlock. "Can you message Mycroft today? Tell him I need clothes when I'm going out one of these days."

"Out?" Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, "Got plans?"

She shrugged. "I do have a certain person I need to speak to. Breakfast first, though. And the news, apparently." She moved into the kitchen, but paused as her ears registered the TV.

" _...Mr Wilkes, an investment banker and the manager of the Trading Floor at Shad Sanderson Bank, is allegedly accused of being involved with a human smuggling ring, along with several charges of sexual assault and rape. More information will come forward later today, as the police has scheduled a press conference at two this afternoon..._ "

She blinked. "This has been playing on loop?"

John nodded. "On this channel, yes. It's been on BBC, too." He offered her a plate of toast. She quirked a brow at that, but took a piece.

"Seb Wilkes, huh?"

"Jup." She sighed and stared at the piece of toast. "He was the first."

Sherlock paused in his tracks through the kitchen to stare at her. "Five years ago was two-thousand- ten. That was when- We did a case for him. What did you call it, John? _The Blind Banker_. I didn't notice anything." The look of guilt passing through his eyes made her turn, open her mouth to say something along the lines of _it's not your fault,_ but the words couldn't leave her tongue before she was interrupted.

"Of course _he_ wouldn't notice." A smug voice dripped from the other side of the kitchen. With a rising feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach, she slowly turned.

There, leaning against the counter in his dark blue, chalk-striped suit, sipping coffee from one of Sherlock's stolen NSY mugs and leering at her with that endless sneer, was _him_.

"I wouldn't _let_ him. Why would I?" Slowly, he approached, eyes roaming over her disapprovingly.  "You were nothing more than a _toy_ , anyway, _doll_. I wouldn't tell anyone about a stuffed puppy, either. You were nothing more than a set of _holes,_ a thing to keep me busy until something better came along. Why would I be smug about that? He wouldn't even pick up on the signs of a new girlfriend."

She tried to contain her winch at the words, but Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her in question. Sebastian chuckled. "You weren't a part of my life." He drawled. "He didn't notice because there was nothing _to_ notice. You are nothing."

Sherlock took the piece of toast from her. "You okay?"

She swallowed, nodded. "I need to- just- water, please? We'll talk later, okay?"

Sherlock studied her for a long moment before nodding, taking one of his stolen NSY mugs from the sink and rinsing it out before filling it up with fresh water.

 

"...Sherrinford?" John asked cautiously. She shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment.

"Contact Mycroft." She ordered, a previously not-there edge to her voice, "I need to go out today, before I go crazy."

"You already are." Sherlock handed her the water, focusing on his phone and texting with his free hand. "Better?"

"Much." She rubbed her eyes, shook her head a little. "Head count?"

"Four." Sherlock considered, "Well, three, if you don't count the skull."

She nodded, "Good." Sniffed. "Very good. Food, then?"

 

***

 

When both the phones that were in the house rang at the same time, one with a call and one with a text, she realised something was wrong. It was easy, when laying on the slightly battered sofa surrounded by smells from _before_ , trying to discern the spots on the ceiling, to forget what was going on, to forget about the past and the future and just _be_ for a moment or two. She could almost feel herself slipping, even.

The phones, though, pulled her out of it, as did the sounds of John scrambling to answer his.

"Greg? ... Yeah, it's me." He paused, listening to the DI. "Shit. _Shit,_ Bloody buggering _fuck_." His gaze fell to the woman watching him. "Yeah, they're both here. I'll keep an eye on them. .... Good luck." He hung up and sighed. Sherrinford quirked a brow.

"She's gone." He sighed. "Mary. She's gone."

She nodded, ignoring the ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Figures. She's too intelligent to hang around after attempted murder. I mean, the first time, maybe, but now that all her secrets are out, no. By now, she's changed her name and could be halfway to Mexico, though I'm sure Easter Europe or Asia would be more her style, if she's not holing up in-"

"Lestrade said to be careful." John interrupted, realising the stream of words would go on otherwise.

She shrugged. "Figures. Chances are slim she'll come back though. Not when- Can I borrow your clothes?"

"Wha- what?" John frowned at her at the sudden change in subject.

"Just some jeans." She argued, "We're about the same size. Mycroft is going to take ages to get me some of my own clothes so he can keep me inside longer, but I need to go out and talk to some people, tell them I'm back. Discuss some things."

"You want to meet him, then?" Sherlock dropped his phone on the coffee table, "Mycroft is saying it'll take him another day to get your clothes here. You're not going out alone."

"That rings some bells." She muttered. "You coming along, then?"

"If you want. It's either me or one of Mycroft's minions."

 _Minions_. She frowned, imagining going out with some faceless, nameless goon before shaking her head. "Please."

John nodded, "You can see if you can find something upstairs, just be quiet. I don't think Maddie slept before her night feeding ."

"Got it." She snuck up the stairs, in search of something wearable.

 

***

 

"You know," She said, tilting her head up to the slight drizzle, "This is going to sound stupid, but I missed the rain. Missed being outside."

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, then slowed in his tracks to walk next to her and study her face.

"You were abused." He stated, his voice dark, "Horribly, Unforgivably. We'll make sure they'll never see the light of day again."

"No you won't." She sighed, inhaled the stench of the city, the air fresh to her lungs. "They need a fair trial, or everything would go to waste. Everything they did... They need a public trial. The others need closure, too."

"It will never happen again." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Nothing will happen to you ever again."

She chuckled. " _Dull_. If you think that after all this I'm going to take my meds and allow myself to be locked up in some stupid office job, you're very wrong."

"I didn't expect you to." Sherlock scanned the street and crossed, looking up at the houses. "Just wait and see how this goes first."

"Patience?" She smirked, "Something you picked up from your good doctor perhaps?"

"Shut up." He rang the doorbell, shielding her with his body as subtly as he could. "John isn't-"

"Hello?" A woman in a mini-dress and high stilettos, with platinum hair, a golden band on her ring finger, and bright red lips opened the door, and Sherlock tried his best charming-smile-impersonation. "Can I help you?"

She had a heavy Russian accent, Holmes noted. Her voice rang a distant bell... She pushed the thought away, as her mind was already overflowing with voices and people who seemed vaguely familiar. She didn't need another mystery to solve.

Sherlock smiled at the woman, but stepped aside to shield his little sister a bit more.

"Does Oliver Doe live here?" He asked. The woman narrowed her eyes at him.

"Ye-es," she drawled, "But he is not home right now. Who can I say came by?"

"Spencer Reid." Sherlock smiled winningly at her once more. "He'll know who I am." He politely stepped away as she looked him up and down one last time, not even sparing Sherrinford a glance, before closing the door in their faces.

Sherlock's face fell back into passiveness. "Well, she is a twat."

"She's his wife." She mused, trying hard to ignore the pounding of _Spencer Reid doctor Reid Hotch Hotch Agent Hotchner_ in her head. "He married her and she's his wife."

"It seems so." Sherlock stepped back, away from the door, and looked down at her. "Are you... all right?"

She frowned, eyes slightly distant due to the gears turning in her head. "Fine. I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine? Everything is- Back to Baker Street, then?"

After studying her for a moment longer, he nodded. "Fine."

 

"Can I ask you a question?" He asked, more cautious than he probably should have, because she froze in her motions, standing in the middle of the passing people as he continued walking the few steps it took him to realise. When he moved back, question on his face, she swallowed and nodded. He moved to her side and took her hand.

"What are you going to do when you see him? Are you going to yell at him? Scream? Attack him? Punch him in the face? Strangle him? You are entitled to."

She chuckled, but shook her head. "As much as you and Mycroft want me to do- all that..." She sighed. "My body can't handle any fighting right now, not until my ribs and back are healed. As for shouting, I don't know if I can, anymore. Chances are they beat it out of me. It doesn't matter, anyway. I just want to know _why_."

 _I don't care_ how _you did it, Sherlock, I just want to know_ why. Sherlock swallowed, thrown by the sudden voice in his head. "I see." Then, something else sprung out to him. "Your back?"

She shrugged. "Caning, mostly. I'll live. Criminal Minds, Sherlock? You're into _detective shows_ now?"

He took the change of subject for what it was and shrugged. "John-"

"Right." She smirked. " _Of course._ "

He rolled his eyes. "We're not-"

"And why _not_ , exactly?" She smirked knowingly at him, her eyes darting to his bullet scar -to his heart- briefly before meeting his eyes again.

He huffed. "He's not-"

" _Divorced_? He soon will be, now that his marriage can be annulled because his wife doesn't exist."

" _Gay._ " The word was growled through clenched teeth, an uncharacteristic show of emotion passing the detective's face before it flickered and disappeared. It gave her pause.

"Oh, _Sherlock_."She took his hand, entwined their fingers, looked at his face. "Did he really say that?"

He shrugged, looking away. "Several times on multiple occasions. In fact, as often as he could."

"Right." She nodded to herself, apparently having made a decision. " _Right_. All right then, that's something that needs to be fixed."

Sherlock watched with growing horror as he saw the gears turn in his sister's head. "Sherrinford-"

"Hush, I need to think."

"Don't-"

"Too late now, Sherlock. I'm thinking now, can't stop it, I'm afraid. Might cause damage if I do that."

He sighed and resigned himself with his fate. Maybe something good would come from it. _Maybe._

***

 

"...Though I doubt your landlady would appreciate a squid-" She froze the moment she had thrown open the apartment door, making Sherlock nearly run into her. He frowned, looked over her head to spot the tall not-stranger with the ginger hair standing in the kitchen, holding a cup of tea, looking as if he belonged there.

"Sherlock...?" She ventured, her voice uncertain and slightly wavering. He swallowed and answered her unspoken question.

"You, me, John's on the couch, and Oliver is in the kitchen. Holding a cup of tea."

"Okay." She blinked, but didn't move. He gently pushed her out of the way so he could access the coat rack to hang the Belstaff in its designated spot.

The man in the kitchen was a lot less stunned. "You." He breathed, placing his cup down and advancing slowly, step by step, his voice raising with every gained foot. "Are alive. You are _fucking_ alive, you just walk in here like _nothing_ has happened, like- five years, Snow. Five _fucking_ years without a word. Not a single message, no letter, no- a fucking _postcard_ would've been enough! You just- Never! And now you're here, like nothing happened! Do you have any idea how fucking _long-_ "

She frowned, watching him. He was a mere two meters away now, and she could sense Sherlock tensing up to step in, to protect her.

"I know." She said, trying to sound calm and mostly succeeding. "I was there, too, the past years. It's a long time."

"No _buggering_ SHIT!!" He hollered. She could only just repress her flinch. "You left me _alone,_ and I had to find out on the fucking _news_ you're still alive! You didn't even contact me!" Again, he was advancing, and with a simple hand gesture she told Sherlock to let him.

"We just came back from your house." She spoke calmly, not quite sure what had the man so worked up. Somewhere, she'd hoped he'd be happy to see her. Elated, maybe. Not... this. "Met your wife. She's... lovely."

"Oh, you _bitch_." He was standing _very_ close now, their chests nearly pressed together, glaring down at her. "You _dare_ to go and _harass_ Katherine, too?" As he spoke, a breath full of alcohol wafted around them, explaining what was going on. She swallowed as the name made something not unlike alarm bells ring in her head.

"Katherine..." She breathed, ignoring the accusation. It was no use when he was like this, anyway. "Katherine Nasonov?" She swallowed. "She's going to kill you. Poison you with cyanide and collect your presumed riches." The words were out before she could help herself.

"SHUT UP!!!" In one semi-fluent movement, he pinned her to the wall, high enough to leave her feet dangling. She managed not to grimace. "Don't you _dare-_ "

The rest of the sentence was lost as he was suddenly grabbed from behind and propelled off the stairs.

"Out!!" Sherlock hollered, face red in anger, "Don't _ever_ dare to set foot in here again!" He glared at the man who was repacking himself at the bottom of the staircase, " _Now!_ "

With one last glare, the drunk left, slamming the door on his way out.

Sherrinford sunk to the floor, letting out one single sob before she regained fragile control over her body, every muscle shaking as she tried to ignore the sudden pain flaring up all over her torso. John was up and at her side within seconds, trying to get her to look at him as she squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head vehemently. Sherlock came over, touched her shoulder, and suddenly she gasped, her eyes wide-open.

"SHUT UP!!"  She curled up in pain, whimpering as Sherlock wrapped his arms around her. "Shut up, shut up, shut up..."

Sherlock hushed her. "Talk to me, Sherrin." He whispered, just loud enough for John to catch. "What's going on in there?"

Her breath hitched. "They're saying I'm worthless, a wimp, a sissy for giving in to the pain. They're saying I should harm myself, suggesting how. Too much suggestions, though. I shouldn't listen. Shouldn't be a bad girl. Mummy would be so disappointed-" She was choked off by another sob, and Sherlock rubbed her back.

"That's right." He murmured, "You shouldn't. They're wrong. Sherrinford, he's wrong. You're amazing. You have the most amazing little brain I know. You're brilliant."

When she seemed to have calmed down a little, John scraped his throat. "Sherrinford?" He asked, waiting until she looked at him with red eyes. "Can I talk to you... alone? Just... a medical thing."

She swallowed, nodded, let Sherlock pull her up and walk her to the couch.

"I'll be downstairs calling Mycroft." He announced. "If you need me-"

"Yes." She sniffed, but offered him a watery smile. " _Go._ I'll be fine."

He nodded, walked out. Closed the door behind him. It was a moment or two before they heard him walk down the stairs.

John sighed and chuckled. "He doesn't trust me."

"On the contrary." She lay herself down. "It's me he has trouble trusting."

"Yes." He scraped his throat again. "I can- have you considered having yourself checked up?" He asked, "By a psychiatrist, I mean. The way you react to some things may suggest-"

"There is something very wrong with my brain." She sighed, rolled her eyes. "I _know_."

"All right." John pursed his lips. "Still, don't you want to know _what_ -"

"Schizophrenia." She sighed through her nose. John paused.

"What?"

"Schizophrenia." She repeated. "I _see_ people that aren't there. I hear voices. Sometimes I can't tell who's real and who's not."

"I-" John frowned and took a moment to think. "Did you consider taking medication?"

She shrugged. "meds are hard to come by when you're a bed slave." She stated flatly. "Besides, I've been on meds. They impair my thinking a lot. As long as I'm stable, it's not worth it."

"Are you? Stable?"

She shrugged. "I was, until I saw Oliver. Then the voices- I haven't heard them in a long time. The other day, Seb Wilkes was here, but other than that... no destructive people came from my mind."

"But others have."

She shrugged again. "Sherlock's almost always there." She admitted. "From my mind he's younger, though. Seventeen, sometimes twenty-five. Never as he is now. Odd, that is. Mycroft is always different, too. Those two... I can almost always tell if they're real or not."

"Weird." John agreed, not sure what else to say.

"Yes." She sighed through her nose. "Can we stop talking about it now? I'm in pain. Would fancy some morphine, honestly, but that's not a good idea if I'm already seeing things without it."

"Morphine intensifies things?" John asked, intrigued. She stared at him for a long moment, studying him from top to bottom.

"You're bisexual."

John frowned. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing." She shrugged, "But I said we were going to change the subject. You didn't, so now I am. You're bisexual."

"Am I?" John had long since learned to stop asking _how_ when it came to a Holmes' deductions, to stop denying it and misdirect, instead. She exhaled through her nose.

"Obviously. Whether you've repressed the fact or simply didn't act on it, I can't tell, but you are."

"Is this relevant to _anything_?" John inquired, lightly, though he knew and feared where the conversation was going. She turned her head to glance at the door. He saw, she knew, and understood. The words leaving her mouth next were completely superfluous, but for extra effect, she spoke them anyway.

"You are in love with my brother."

"I-" John sighed. "Not saying that I _am_..." He started, "But does it matter? He doesn't do _sentiment_."

She smiled sadly. "Back in college, Sherlock fancied this boy, Victor. He tried so hard to hide it that Victor came to me one day, asking if Sherlock hated him."

"Sherlock doesn't hate me." John said, confused. "I know that. He just... never seems to care for... that."

"If I can believe the stories, you've made it quite clear that you're -what was the wording?- not gay. Not a couple. Etcetera, etcetera."

"I'm not." John stated blandly. "We're not."

"Yes, but it isn't exactly an _invitation_ , is it? Sherlock doesn't-" She was interrupted by a loud wail from upstairs, and John jumped up.

"Shit." He was up and at the door in a moment, but glanced back to her uncertainly, as if she'd need him _more._

"Go!" She said, irritated. "I'll be fine." She offered him an assuring smile.

 

John's phone rang. She swallowed. She couldn't answer it, never did take calls, for they were too hard to trace, too similar to her _symptoms_... besides, it would be an infringement of his privacy.

The screen lit up with the photo of a terrifyingly familiar face and it erased all of her doubts. Mycroft could trace the call later, check if it really happened. For now, though...

"Sherrinford Holmes."

" _Just the girl I want to speak to._ " The female voice drawled, sultry tone making shivers run down her spine, and not of the good kind. " _Guess where I am right now._ "

She looked out of the window, studying the street, only noting Mycroft's men. "You're obviously watching from somewhere." She muttered, knowing the phone would pick up on it. "What do you _want_?"

" _You._ " The answer was as simple as it was terrifying. " _Just you will suffice._ "

She swallowed. "Why? You'll never survive in England with me with you."

" _You'd sell for big money. I need big money to escape the country._ "

She swallowed. "You have nothing on me."

" _Really? Not even a little? Like a_ friend _of yours?_ "

"Excuse me?" She frowned, hoping against hope that her brain was following the wrong track.

" _Does the name Vernunft ring a bell?_ "

 _Vernunft_. Yes, yes it did ring a bell. It was a smoky bar, sleazy and full of dirt, the place for crooks of all kinds to come and talk. They used to go and play poker there often, _before._

" _He still goes there, you know. Drinks away his sorrows because his work partner is gone and his marriage is boring and his wife isn't his love. It would be a shame, indeed, if something were to happen to him... if someone were to spike his drink, for instance, or accidentally run him over._ "

"It's been five years." She swallowed, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. "Why would I care for him now?"

" _Why, indeed_?" She mused, " _But in case you do, you should come to the warehouse I took you to. The first one, remember?_ "

She set her jaw. "I will send the entirety of the British armed forces your way."

" _If you do, he is dead._ " The call disconnected and she blinked until the door opened, Sherlock coming through the door and racing to her side as he saw her face.

"Sherrinford?"

She shook her head. "Get Mycroft to get a tab on Oliver and that Katherine lady. I need to do something. I'll-" She rushed to the door. "I'll contact you."

Sherlock raised his phone back to his ear, having never hung up. "Check John's call record." He ordered, "Something is wrong."

 

***

 

"I came alone." She announced as the heavy doors closed behind her, leaving her in the dark except for the small bulb glowing above her. "Alone and unarmed."

"I... didn't." Her ex-mistress admitted, though she didn't sound very sorry. The lights in the windowless hall turned on, and after some blinking Sherrinford could see her there, at the end of the hall, with a remote in her one hand that presumably controlled the lights, and a gun in the other.

Pressed firmly against _his_ temple.

He was tied to a sturdy wooden chair and seemed to be swimming in and out of consciousness, though that was mare likely because of the abundance of alcohol in his system than because of the still mildly bleeding head wound she could spot.

"I must warn you," She talked, filling the silence as she advanced, "Mycroft will have the cavalry on its way as we speak, we have roughly thirty minutes to make this transaction."

"Good." 'Mary' pointed at a spot roughly fifteen feet in front of her. "Go stand over there."

Not puzzled in the least, she did what she was told.

"Now kneel."

"No." She stared the woman down with a coldness that would make Mycroft shiver.

"Sorry?"

"No." She didn't move. "Though I think you heard me perfectly fine the first time."

The safety clicked off the gun. "Are you sure?"

"Very." Her growl was dangerous in a way she hadn't allowed it to be in a _very_ long time. "Come over here, instead."

"Why would I?" The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously at her. Sherrinford smirked.

"So you can make me. We both know how much you like that."

"Shut up." Mary walked her way, though, step by step. Sadly, she was smart enough to keep the gun trained on _him_ , and not on her.

"Now kneel."

"No." Sirens sounded in the distance. They were in London, sirens always sounded in the distance. These were getting closer, though. "Never in my life will I kneel for you again, you power-hungry witch." She said it all as calmly as if she was talking about the weather. "I'd rather you shoot us both."

"You little-"

"Don't you _dare_ call me a shit." She sneered, anger seeping into her voice. The sirens were close, now. "I've endured five years of abuse from you lot, and I've had _enough_. I'm going to bring you down, _every single one of you,_ even if it's the last thing I do." She was furious, now, practically vibrating with anger about _everything_. Thanks to one mistake made by that _drunk idiot_ , her world had fallen apart, was torn to shreds, and she was left to clean the mess with only her dysfunctional brain and her probably-not-hallucinations brothers to pick up the pieces. She should walk away now, she knew. Walk away and don't look back as the shot would ring out that would end it all. There was not much left of him, anyway, and it's what he would've done. What he had done.

For some reason, she couldn't.

She huffed an unamused laugh."You think you're so smart." She sneered, staring the blond woman down. "You all do, with your little tricks and habits to keep anyone from finding out... but in the end, one just needs to find the right string to pull to become a puppet master."

Mary frowned. "What the _hell_ are you on about?"

She smirked. "It would never take Mycroft longer than ten minutes to send men my way when I'd need them. Just like that, you were never going to sell me off without asserting your dominance. It's going to take two minutes for the men outside to break down the doors and get in here. If you value your life, _run_. Give me some fun and let me chase you like the scared little piece of game you are."

"You-" Mary was furious, scared. Her masked had dropped and Sherrinford could see every emotion as she once again took aim, half-turning to take the shot.

"NO!!" Instinct took over. Without thinking, she grabbed for the hand holding the gun, used her body to slam into the woman and turn the body away from the chair. Her aching muscles, her cracked ribs complained, but she hardly noticed as her only thought was _no_. The shot rang out, and everything seemed to pause for a moment as over the course of less than a second, but slowly, ever so slowly, the pain flared up in her abdomen. She gasped in pain, and, as Mary stepped away and fled, staggered.

To her own dismay, she fell to her knees.  Mary's condescending chuckle was the last she heard before she sensed the _not-real_ take over.

 

***

 

_"You know," he said, sitting on that damned wooden chair as the world floated around her, "I don't even like blues."_

_She frowned at him, then down at the wound in her abdomen. "Am I going to die?" She asked, he shrugged._

_"There was something about the way you moved to Louis Armstrong, though, that made me listen to the music time and time again."_

_A little blood flowed out of the wound, drenched the cotton of her shirt. "It doesn't look deadly."_

_"Someday you'll be sorry." He recited. "Kind of fitting right now, no?"_

_She glared at him. "You're the one who left me." She sighed. "I must be dying. Why else would my mind conjure you up to talk about blues? You_ hate _blues."_

_"Yet I kept playing it." He smiled sadly. "I guess we're both a little weird."_

_She managed a chuckle as the pain flared back up. "Anything you can do, I can do better."_

***

 

Gunshot wound. John watched in sick fascination as they pulled out the bullet. They were using a local anaesthetic, as to not risk doing any damage to her vulnerable state of mind, and what was going on in that mind was fascinating. She was gesturing, not flailing in panic, but gesturing, as if she was talking to someone. Her mouth was moving, too, and her eyes were slightly glazed over, distant. Once, a nurse had to stop her from prodding the wound as it was sealed, but other than that, she seemed to be fine.

Unlike her brothers.

Mycroft was mostly being his composed self, the only indication of his inner turmoil the tapping of his umbrella on the floor and the slightly off colour of his skin. Sherlock was pacing the hall like a caged panther, hands moving constantly from being clasped under his chin to being balled into fists at his sides to pulling at his hair to his back to back to his chin. No matter how sorry John felt for the man, he couldn't watch it for too long before going crazy himself, and decided to distract himself by watching the surgery.

By the end, the doctors had found some minor complications in the form of open wounds on her back and her ribs that were just that little more cracked than before.

Mary had shot her.

Mary, the woman who he once loved, the woman he proposed to. The woman he married.

His _ex_ -wife.

Sometime when they had been waiting for the doctors to finish, Athnea had silently appeared at his side with a stack of papers stating that since Mary Mornstan no longer existed, the marriage was to be annulled and terminated as of the moment John signed the papers.

That was all. It was over.

Madelyn was his to raise, now. His... No more worrying for an entire week because he couldn't see her, hold her, had left her with the woman who'd shot his best friend.

_"You are in love with my brother."_

Mary, whoever she was, had tried to kill both his _love_ -better to admit it, even if it was just in his head- and the person who knew what was going on. If he were a little self-centred, he'd think it was about him, but no. It never was.

It never was.

" _Change the subject._ " The memory of her voice airily said. " _You're bisexual._ "

Well, that, at least, _had_ been about him, even when it was an attempt to distract from the more pressing subjects. But why? Why in the world had she brought that up? And at that moment, too? From the corner of his eye, he glanced at his detective who was still pacing the hall. They'd gone out, together, to see Oliver... did something happen? Did they... talk?

Internally, John scoffed at himself. _Of course_ they'd talked. They hardly did anything else. But about _what_? About... him?

 

"Mr Holmes?" A doctor's voice pulled him from his musings. Mycroft stood, looking expectantly at the doctor, only briefly scanning his blood-covered scrubs and clean hands. The doctor smiled thinly. "The operation was successful. However, I must ask-"

"Her room?" Sherlock asked, interrupting him. He looked positively manic, energy radiating from his body and fists clenched tightly at his sides to refrain from shaking the poor doctor. John huffed a laugh and the man swallowed.

"203." Again, he swallowed. "She's in two-oh-three. But I must insist-"

"Shut up." The detective was gone already, down the hall before the doctor could finish his sentence. John rolled his eyes and followed.

"Sherlock, maybe you can-"

"Come on, John, hurry!"

"Sherlock, just-"

"No time, _come on!_ "

"Slow down!" Sherlock froze for a moment, and turned in place to appraise his friend. John sighed.

"She's not even awake yet, you can spare your breath."

"You don't _understand_ , John." An odd look passed his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly. "I _need_ to be there when she wakes up, or else-" he turned, started walking again, slightly slower this time so John could actually keep up without having to run. "I _need_ to."

 

***

 

"You're late." The woman mumbled, her voice slow with sleep and drugs. She was on her side on the bed with her back to them, and John tried not to winch at the state of her back. Some wounds seemed to be infected.

"You're not supposed to be awake." He stated instead of entering the room. Sherlock stayed put, too, several paces from the bed. She shrugged with her top shoulder.

"I was never really asleep. _Sherlock_."

"Sherrin?" The detective swallowed, wavered.

"Come over here." The words were enough to spur the man into motion, moving to the other side of the bed and kneeling near her face.

"Head count?" John heard her whisper.

"Three." Sherlock smiled at her, touched her hand carefully. "You, me, John. Mycroft is outside." He saw her face fall. "What is it? Who did you-"

"How is he?" She asked, voice urgent. "Please tell me he's- I didn't get shot to-"

"Shh." He smiled at her. "He's fine. Unharmed, even. Should be waking up to an enormous hangover right about now. He's got Mycroft's wrath to worry about, though."

"No." She frowned at him. "No, you can't let that happen, please. I didn't- Please."

"Hush." He carded a careful hand through her curls. "I won't. Sleep now, you need it."

She smiled weakly. "We match, now."

He chuckled softly. "I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing. Go to sleep."

She closed her eyes and tried to do just that as Sherlock settled in the chair near her bed.

 

***

 

She woke to an unfamiliar bed that smelled like cleaning agents and medicine, and for a moment, her heart stopped.

 _I'm not tied down_. She realised after a moment, and allowed herself to take a breath. _Hospital, then_. _Gunshot wound to the stomach_. "Oliver."

"I'd have to disappoint you, I'm afraid." She could hear the wry smile in his words."How are you feeling?"

She tried to shrug. "Like I was shot at close range. Mycroft-" She interrupted herself, not sure what question she wanted to ask. "-Why are you here? You loathe hospitals."

"You loathe rice." He answered. "Yet, when you were twelve, you ate two plates of it, simply because I made it for you."

She smiled. "I'll consider us even."

Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor. "My team has looked into your file. Apparently, someone _very_ high up at Interpol ordered everyone to back off on your case. Even so, being your partner, Oliver should've extracted you, or warned _me._ "

"Don't lose yourself over me. There was nothing you could've done."

"There are things I can do now." He stood, looking down at her as he leaned on the umbrella. "Aren't there?"

She closed her eyes again. "Just take care of those files. Finish it."

 

***

 

It was three days before she was cleared to lay on her back and sit up a bit. Sherlock and John had come by every day, bringing Maddie along, though Sherrinford had forced them to go home when she was sleeping. Mycroft had come by once more, too, to inform her of the process he was making with her case files. No one mentioned that they seemed to have lose Mary _again_.

At the end of the third day, she was staring at the ceiling counting the seconds when the door opened and someone came in. She suppressed a sigh when she recognised the steps.

"Visiting hours are over."

"You saved my life."

"Indeed." She sighed. "Are you going to yell at me again?"

"No." He came into the room, but stood at a safe distance.

"I don't even know if you're real." She huffed. "If you do want to accuse me of things again, do it now. Get it out of your system, then _leave_."

"I'm sorry?"

"Leave and never come back, Oliver." She stared at the ceiling, ignoring the tightening in her chest."Make something useful of your life or, you know, just _piss off_."

"I'm not going to yell at you. _Yet_." He came a little closer. "Why did you save my life? Why do you suddenly _care_ , after five years?"

"I didn't _choose_ to stay away, you know." She glared at him. "Whether you're real or not, I _didn't choose to_."

"But you _chose_ not to let me know! You could've sent out a message to me anytime! You _chose_ to make believe you were _dead_!"

"How many times do I have to- _I had no choice_!" She sat up more to look at him, but the movement pulled at her wounds and she fell back, suppressed a groan. She couldn't look weaker than she already did. "Whatever. I don't owe you anything." She turned her back to him, momentarily forgetting the fact that her gown had an open back.

His gasp reminded her harshly.

"What... what are _those?_ "

"Nothing of importance to you." She groped around for the blanket to pull it up higher.

"What did you _do_?" He stepped closer, standing right next to the bed, now. "Snow?"

"Shut _up_." She pulled the blanket over her shoulders and squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't... just shut up." She hated the way her voice sounded, the way moist was threatening to trickle out of the corners of her eyes. She _really_ wanted him to leave, leave and never come back, if all what he was going to do was yell at her.

"No." There was a hand on his shoulder, and then steps were moving around the bed and then he was sitting in the chair, facing her. She didn't open her eyes.

"No. I need to... _not-yell_ at you, first." He took a deep breath, she could hear it. "I found the cyanide. Katherine has been apprehended by the NSY. Your DI friend punched me in the face."

 "Hm."

"I need to apologise. For pinning you against the wall and re-opening your wounds. I didn't know-"

"You _didn't_ know." She swallowed. "You couldn't have known without asking. Besides, you don't apologise. Now Fuck- go away."

"You never swear."

"Well, a lot can change in five years. _Leave._ "

"Nope. Open your eyes, please."

"No." She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "I'm not going to. Now, if you're real, please leave."

"Why?" The question, the tone it was asked in, sparked _something_ in her mind.

_"I always work alone." - "Why?"_

_"I'm going in there." - "Why?"_

_"I do trust you." - "Why?"_

_"I need to do this one alone." - "Why?"_

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, staring at him. "Because!" She sat up enough to look at him properly. "Because it's been five years since we last talked, and you've moved on, and I can't _be here_ and just talk to you and let you talk to me and then watch you walk away. Because you're _fucking pissed_ at me and I cannot watch as you yell at me and curse me and then walk away. Because I- _fuck_ , I was abused, and raped, and caned, and cut, and used as an ashtray, and I was _shot_ less than a week ago and now you're going to yell at me again and I just want to _fucking sleep_ , Oliver, I just want to sleep and wake up and realise that the past five years have been some sort of horrible nightmare but I know that when I fall asleep, everything just gets worse, and now it turned out it was all because some diplomat tried to protect his dirty little secret, because for some reason you didn't pull me out of the mission and you blame _me_ for staying away and maybe if you leave and stop blaming me I can try to rebuild my life!" She stared at him for long moments, then fell back to her pillow. " _Fuck,_ everything hurts." Her eyes fell shut as the wound in her abdomen burned. There was some rustling, though, some clicking, and then relief as more painkillers flowed into her system.

"Sl _ee_ p." A voice came, and she couldn't tell where it came from. A hand carded lightly through her tangled curls. "I'll be _back, I pro_ mise. _Sleep_."

Exhausted, she did as the voice ordered. Sleep did sound good.

 

***

 

"They found Mary." John announced a day and a half later, after he'd placed Maddie in her arms and settled himself in the uncomfortable plastic chair at her bedside. "Sherlock is at  the scene now, making sure the police doesn't miss anything."

She frowned. "What... happened?"

John chuckled. "We're not sure, really. Either she was poisoned, shot, or hanged."

"Or all three." She smiled down as Maddie tried to chew on her pointer finger. "Seems a bit ruthless."

_"You can't go in alone. They will kill you!"_

_"Highly unlikely. They can't do anything I can't handle, you know that."_

_"I know, but... You can handle getting hurt much more than I can handle you getting hurt... you know."_

_"Incredibly eloquent, as always. I'll be fine! It will be over before they can do anything."_

_"Right."_

_"What? What is it?"_

_"Nothing. Why would there be anything? You're going on possibly the most risky field mission in your life, nothing's wrong."_

_"Yes there is. Your face is doing that thing. Come on, tell me what it is."_

_"Promise me you'd let me take measures if they do hurt you."_

_"Of course. Proper legal measures will be applied to anyone-"_

_"Not what I meant, Snow. I- The whole reason this branch of Interpol took me on is something in my file called 'ruthlessness'. My sister called it cruelty."_

_"And you're a crack shot."_

_"That, too. My point is... If anyone as much as touches you out there, I_ will _kill them. Trice."_

_"Maybe your sister was right."_

_"Maybe. But I'd do the same for her, and she knows it. I can be cruel when it involves something I care about."_

"Sherlock is never going to solve that case." She realised. "I mean, it will be obvious that she was poisoned, then hanged, then shot. Clean through the head or heart, probably." She rocked the baby a little. "Maybe both."

"You know who it was, then?" John asked, surprised. "One of your former contacts?"

"In a way." She nodded. "Question is: why?"

John shrugged. "Mary had enemies, apparently. Anyone could've done it. _I_ could've done it."

"Yeah, but you have an alibi." She waved his words away. "Sherlock would take care of it. Which reminds me; Talk to him."

"Have you talked to Oliver yet?" He rebutted. She narrowed her eyes.

"Yes." She tilted her head a little. "At least, I think so. Still not sure if it wasn't the morphine."

"Right." John nodded and moved a bit closer to the bed. "Are you going to start taking medication?"

"I don't know." She shrugged as much as she could with the baby in her arms. "It would probably mess with my recovery. Besides, I don't really want to."

"Did you ever take medication?" John asked, "Just out of medical interest."

"Once." She nodded. "My parents tried some stuff when I was younger, but it was horrible, so they never really stuck to it. Once, though, for a case."

"How'd that go?" John moved even closer. "Not good?"

She huffed something akin to a laugh. "That's a way of putting it. I guess it does make for a funny story, though, if you're up for it."

  
***

 

"It's good to have you back, dear." Mrs Hudson smiled warmly at her as Sherlock helped her move through the front door. "I used to worry so every time Sherlock ended up in the hospital, and you already was in such a bad shape- but we don't talk about that, dear, we won't, you just get yourself better."

She shrugged and ignored her brother's eye roll. "I will certainly endeavour to try my best." She promised with a slight smirk. "Now please, I haven't showered in a week."

"Of course, darling. I'll bring up some lunch later. And those flowers too- they were brought yesterday- lovely roses, dear, must've been expensive."

She froze. "Roses?"

"Yes. Came in yesterday, a big-"

"What colour?"

"Oh, all kinds of colours, though I particularly like the white ones. The red ones remind me a tad too much of that experiment Sherlock once did with the pig- remember that one, Sherlock? Dreadful."

"Very interesting." Sherlock muttered in her ear, before pushing her up the stairs. "Sherrinford really needs her rest, Mrs Hudson, so please don't come up until _later_." He basically carried her up the stairs, not at all careful with her still-healing bullet wound. When they were in the living room, she threw herself on the couch.

"White roses are funeral flowers." She complained. "He sent me _funeral flowers_."

"Yes." He chuckled. "He also sent you the symbols of deep, undying love."

"And a bunch of other stuff, apparently." She huffed. "The man's an idiot sometimes."

"But he is sending you flowers."

"Yes." She scrunched up her nose. "Is that a good thing? That's a good thing, right?"

"It's not a bad thing." Sherlock shrugged and moved to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"Are you asking or offering?" She smirked. "Please. How's the case going?"

"Terrible. There's no way the police is going to find out who did it."

"Good."

"Good?" Sherlock frowned, the unspoken _why the fuck is that good_ ringing through obviously in his tone.

"Yes, good." She sat up and looked at him as he moved around the kitchen. "Evidence or not, we both know who did this, and I'd rather Myc took care of him."

Sherlock frowned. "Mycroft would kill him."

She shrugged. "John punched you when you returned and he's still alive."

"John didn't push me up against a wall or got me shot." Sherlock paused for a moment. "But if John didn't get me shot, then Oliver didn't, either."

Sherrinford nodded. "Mary did, or whatever the fuck het name was. I can't blame him for getting shot if it wasn't his fault."

"He got drunk." The water boiled and Sherlock poured it. "He got himself captured."

"He's an idiot." She stood and wandered into the kitchen. "He's always been an idiot. But he's not the kind of idiot to deliberately get himself caught. That was _my_ job. Besides-" She swallowed. "The drinking wasn't about me, it was about Katherine. He doesn't care about me. Not anymore."

A strange look passed Sherlock's face and he pulled her in for a tight hug. "We'll manage." He rasped.

She pushed him away.

"No." She said, sternly. "No. Sherlock Holmes, you're _not_ going to _manage_. I am going to manage, and you're going to tell that doctor of yours you're in love with him and his daughter, but not in a weird _Twilight_ kind of way, and we're both going to be okay."

Sherlock frowned deeply. "What has whatever I do or don't feel for John to do with the twilight? Is it a romance thing I missed?"

She huffed a laugh. "It's a pop culture thing, and you can be _very_ glad you missed it."

His frown didn't lessen. "I... will be."

"Good." She stepped away. "I'm going to shower, then sleep for a _fucking week_. Wake me on Tuesday."

 

***

 

John snuck up the stairs. He'd been tied up filling out forms about Mary, about Maddie, all day, and now it was three at night and he was very tired and trying to be quiet because Sherlock had probably put Madelyn in her crib already and Sherrinford was hopefully asleep somewhere.

"John."

The doctor startled, nearly slammed the door behind him at the sound.

" _Shit_ , Sherlock, you startled me. Why are you still up?"

Sherlock swallowed, looking dark and soft and slightly ominous sitting in his chair at the fire, wearing his pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. He tapped his fingers on the armrest.

"We need to talk."

"O-kay." John slowly moved to his own chair. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes." Sherlock sighed. "No. Maybe. I've been thinking."

"Stating the obvious there." John noticed the half-full bottle of scotch and the empty glass on the table next to Sherlock's chair. Liquid courage, then. _What is going on?_

"I've been thinking- Madelyn is going to get older -hopefully- and she's going to need her own room and since the apartment only has two bedrooms, this could provide some practical issues-"

John smiled, recognising that his friend was nervous and having a good feeling why.

"- that could be easily resolved. My room is spacious enough for two wardrobes and you don't have much stuff anyway, and I could clean up a bit to make it more comfortable-"

John couldn't suppress his chuckle. "Sherlock Holmes." He tried to keep his face neutral, "Are you asking me to sleep with you?"

Sherlock's marble skin turned slightly pink. "Perhaps. If you're amiable. If not, I was merely suggesting a shared space."

John chuckled. "A _shared space._ Maybe _shared_ dinner, first. Or, you know... a kiss?"

Sherlock smirked back, relief evident. "Maybe." He stood slowly and bent to press a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. John grabbed the lapels of his robe to pull him down, but Sherlock straightened just as a pitiful wail came from upstairs.

John sighed and rested his head on Sherlock's breastbone. "I'll go."

Sherlock pulled him up. "I don't have a bed." He confessed. John chuckled.

"Come on, then. If you're nice, you can use mine."

 

***

 

 _Why the fuck,_ John wondered, blinking awake to find the equivalent of a human storage heater wrapped around him, a mop of unruly curls tickling his nose, _didn't we do this sooner?_ They hadn't actually _done_ much more than soothe Maddie, dress down to their pyjamas and curl up under the covers, but waking up like this was more than he'd ever hoped for.

Sherlock stirred, rubbing his face against John's collar bone lazily. John smiled and pressed a lazy kiss to his hair.

"Good morning."

"Mmm." Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and peered up at him. "Morning." He offered a happy smile. "A good one, indeed." He sat up a bit and looked down at his friend's face, a small crease between his eyes.

"I-" He lay back down on his chest. "We should do this more often."

John huffed a silent laugh, lifting Sherlock on his chest slightly. "I love you, too, you git. I love you, too."

Sherlock froze, then started to tremble. It took John a moment to realise he was holding back giggles. Only a second, though, because after a moment they flowed out, easily and happily, and it woke Maddie, but it didn't matter, because soon they were both giggling like madmen, and Maddie was just staring at them, and maybe, just maybe, this was happiness.

No, it definitely _was_. This was happiness.

 

***

 

Making breakfast at eleven was ridiculous to begin with, let alone making breakfast at eleven for two gits that were awake in a bed on the floor above with a bullet wound and what felt like a meter-thick layer of gauze impeding her movements. The eggs were good, though.

"Do you realise you're whistling?"

"I do." She turned to appraise the body at the door. "Are you real?"

Oliver shrugged and walked further into the room. "You can slap me, if you want."

She blinked at him for a few moments.

"I might, later." She turned off the gas. "Why are you here?"

Oliver moved to the water boiler and switched it on, pulling down a mug and the horrid instant coffee her brother owned for some reason.

"I Googled the meaning of flowers. Apparently it's really hard to make a bouquet saying _'I'm really sorry I refused to listen when you returned from your five-year exile to hell and pushed you against the wall and reopened the wounds on your back and then went and got myself captured so you had to save me again and then you were shot and I visited you in the hospital ready to yell at you again.'_ Figured I could just as well say it in person."

She huffed a self-depreciating laugh. "See, _now_ I know you're a hallucination."

He smiled. "There are exceptions to every rule."

"Yeah, right." She moved around him to pour a cup of tea. "Yet anything I drop will fall to the ground." She pulled out a chair and settled on it, staring at her mug. "I'm not an _idiot_."

"Maybe you are a little bit." Oliver settled on the other side of the table, looking at her. "Would you want me to be... not-real?"

"Maybe." She shrugged. "It would be really amazing if you were _real_ and nice to me. But you're not, and the real you is still pissed at me."

"But I took coffee. Doesn't that prove I'm real?"

"Why would Sherlock own instant-coffee?" She frowned. "Why would you... be here? You made it quite clear that you don't really care."

He slurped his coffee. "I said I'd be back."

"You _said_ you were going to get me out." She sighed. "Sorry. I should know better than to anger you, too."

"That's a thing you do often, then?" He asked, curious, "Angering your hallucinations?"

"Sometimes." She stood and started pacing. "Often enough to know it's not nice. People walk away, you know, when they're angry. They can't really do that when they're in your head."

"I see." Oliver studied her over the rim of his mug. "I am truly sorry."

"Could you stop that?" She sighed, "All that... apologising isn't really aiding the illusion."

"I'm serious." A half-amused smile graced his lips before he hid it behind his mug. "So, what other thing don't we hallucinations do, normally?"

"Be self-aware." She squinted at him. "Though you Olivers usually are more aware than the others." She sipped her tea. "You're sticking along longer than most, too."

He smiled sadly. "You've said that before."

"Well." She stared at the table top. "You did. Even when you most probably don't want to see me ever again, you stuck around until I left you. Through everything. I can't be more grateful for that."

He stood, emptied the contents of his cup in the sink.

"You know..." He moved until he was right next to her, inches away from touching her, "You know I love you, right?"

She twirled her mug, staring at the ear as it moved between her fingers. "Before, maybe. But now..." She tipped her mug almost all the way over then let it fall back. "Fuck this all, anyway. You're not even real."

"Maybe not." He lifted his hand as if to touch her, but dropped it. "But if you ever want me to be, you know where I live. All you have to do is ring my bell."

"Right." She shut her eyes, repeating one of the simple exercises a faceless therapist taught her. When she opened them again, he was gone.

 

She sighed, wrote a quick note and decided to crawl back under the covers.

 

***

 

_Lock,_

_Had an episode, went back to bed. By the time you see this, eggs are probably cold. Congrats & told you so, to the both of you. Wake me when you come to._

_Sherrinford_

John snorted. " _Lock_? Cute."

"Shut up." Sherlock shoved a soggy piece of toast into his mouth and made his way over to the bedroom, Maddie in his arms. "It's a long story." He switched on the kettle as he passed it, noticing the mug in the sink and frowning.

"Sherrinford?" He carefully opened the door, looking into the darkened room. "You awake?"

"Yeah." There was a shuffle and moments later she was standing next to the bed. "Just a headache."

"Are you all right?" He moved further into the room.

"I'm fine." She offered him a weak smile. "Just an heavy episode, that's all."

"Who did you see?"

She stared at him for a moment. "Why do you want to know?"

Sherlock looked at Maddie, tickled the little girl in his arms. "There's a dirty mug in the sink and it isn't yours."

"Oh."

 _Oh, indeed_.

"Oh." She moved past him. "I need to do something. "

"Where are you going?" Sherlock followed her as she moved to the living.

"Out!"

"You're wearing your pyjamas!" John argued, staring at her as if this was the first morning she was insane. She turned and smirked.

"Not like that's stopped you two before." She just resisted slamming the door behind her.

 

The urge to play Beethoven's fifth on the buzzer was too great to resist. She was only at the third count, though, when the door opened and she was faced with _him_. At the sight of his face, she suddenly wasn't so sure if she was right, if her mind wasn't playing tricks on her.

"You're here." He said, voice emotionless, face neutral. She nodded, bit her lip and dared to meet his eyes.

"Can I come in?"

He stepped aside and followed her to the small living room. She looked around the room, noted the arrangement of pillows, the coat thrown over the back of a chair.

She turned and backhanded him across the face.

"You're an arsehole, you know that?"

He smirked and rubbed his sore cheek. "I missed you."

She glared at him, resisting the urge to rise on her toes as he looked down at her. "You _bastard_. You made me believe I was having a episode? How in the _hell_ did you think that was a good idea?"

He shrugged, still rubbing his own cheek. "I wasn't thinking, really. I came to apologise, I didn't realise you were having a risky morning."

"You didn't- arg!" She stepped even closer, standing nearly chest-to-chest and having to crane her neck to glare at him. "I thought I was having a breakdown! I thought that I was going to have a psychosis! I thought-"

"I'm sorry." He interrupted. Delicately, he placed his big hands on her neck, fingers fanning out to frame her cheeks. "For everything. I'm sorry for coming over this morning and not telling you I am real. I'm sorry for coming to Baker Street drunk the other day and hurting you. But mostly I'm sorry, I'm so _fucking_ sorry for listening to my superiors and not pulling you out or checking on you or doing _fucking anything_ , really, and just letting you die out there. I am-" He sighed heavily. "I am truly, deeply sorry. I didn't realise how messed up the information was that I was given. You always told me to second-guess everyone, and I didn't, and you paid the price." He managed a rueful smile. "I'd say _forgive me_ now, but... I'm pretty sure I don't deserve that."

She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest, bunching his shirt in her fists. Almost on instinct, he moved his arms around her back to hold her close.

"I do." She whispered, not sure if he could hear her and not really caring. " _Fuck_ help me, I always do." She moved back an inched to look up at him. "Remember Prague?"

He chuckled. "I nearly killed you." He pulled her closer again and spoke with his chin in her hair. "And you just stared me down, with that idiot I shot at your feet, and said _you're paying for a new jacket_."

She shrugged. "You did make me bleed all over it."

He laughed, pulling her even closer. "I love you." He chuckled. "This is exactly what I missed about you. You are so- _shit,_ Snow, you all right?" He hadn't noticed her stiffening, but now she was trembling almost violently in his arms.

"Snow?"

"Fine." She pressed her face into his chest roughly. "Fine. Just... give me a minute."

"Are you crying?"

"I don't _cry_."

"And _I_ don't apologise. It's been a weird morning, even for us."

" _Us_." She giggled a bit. "We're us again."

"Yeah." He hid his smile in the dark curls. "We are, aren't we? You amazi-"

He was interrupted when his phone started ringing, loudly and obnoxiously. Oliver sighed and moved away to get it from the counter.

"Hello?" He sighed and rubbed his face. "Yeah, did you find anything? ... Right. ... Right. Thank you, Peter, I owe you one. Bye." He hung up and took a moment to collect himself.

"Everything... okay?" Her voice came hesitantly.

"No. _Fuck._ " He threw his phone to the wall, but she caught it before it could shatter. "After your outburst in the hospital I did some digging. Most of your digital Interpol files have been altered or deleted, and Peter from IT is saying it's most likely more than one person. It could be the entire top layer of Interpol."

"Shit." She frowned. " _Shit_. Right. I'll need a laptop or something, so I can run the names, and a list of everyone working at Interpol. Someone might ring a bell. We might also need-"

" _You_ don't need anything." He stopped her. "You need rest, and sustenance, and quite possibly therapy. I'll take care of it."

She glared at him. "You don't decide that."

He met her gaze evenly. "Mycroft is still your legal guardian, isn't he? After the whole fiasco in Italy."

She blanched. "We don't talk about Italy."

"So he is." He nodded. "Wonder what he would do if I told him you are planning on chasing down half of Interpol while still healing from your time away _and_ a bullet wound..."

"He'd kill you." She held up the device in her hand. "Besides, I have your phone."

"I was about to _smash_ that _to a wall_. Do you think it's my only one?"

She dropped it. "Point taken." She stepped on it and turned her foot a few times for good measure. "Smash it like that?"

He shrugged. "More or  less." He moved to his kitchenette and pulled out a new device. "Come on. I'll take you back to Baker Street and then stop by at the Diogenes to see what we can do."

 

***

 

_"Another arrest is made in what is now unofficially dubbed the biggest indecency case England has ever seen. Brandon Parker, one of the leading men at Europol, was lifted from his bed early this morning and taken for questioning. Parker is the thirty-fifth arrest made in the case after Mr Wilkes was arrested little over two months ago, and sources say many more are to follow. As of today, an estimated fifty women and girls have been saved from several houses, though exact numbers are unknown..."_

Sherrinford walked through the double doors to the courtroom and snuck past the public tribunes to her spot, quietly settling down and watching the play.

Just a few meters in front of her, all lawyered up and looking smug and untouchable, was Sebastian Wilkes.

This would be the first day of _revenge_.

 

"Defence calls Miss Sherrinford Holmes to the stand."

She smirked to herself. Time to shine.

 

"Isn't it true, Ms Holmes, that Mr Wilkes was at university together with your brother, Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Doctor." She tried her best to look very, very bored.

"Excuse me?"

"I am doctor Holmes, which you know, because you've checked the facts or you wouldn't know about how my brother was treated by your client during their university years, or about the tiny little fact that your client aided my brother's search for _stimulation,_ so to say, and that I was not happy about it when I found out. Maybe _Mr Wilkes_ even told you about how I made my way over his dorm room one night, all five feet of me, and threatened to ruin his life if he ever contacted my brother again. Does that about sum up your defence?"

The judge, an elderly man with thin-rimmed glasses, sighed, a trace of an amused smile on her face.

"Doctor Holmes, please restrict yourself to _just_ answering the questions, please."

"My apologies." She nodded her head with an unapologetic smirk. "Yes, Mr Wilkes and my brother were in the same year at the same university."

The lawyer nodded, looking slightly baffled at her previous answer. "And you did swear revenge for the way he treated your brother?"

"Objection." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not on trial and that is a _very_ suggestive question."

The judge tried to keep his face neutral. " _Doctor Holmes_."

"Apologies, your Honourable." She focussed back on the lawyer. "I never thought about revenge. I just wanted to protect my family."

The lawyer looked sceptical. "In particular you older brother."

She shrugged. "Just because he's male and older than I am doesn't mean he can't be vulnerable." She frowned. "But this isn't about my brother. This is about your client being charged for doing things he shouldn't."

"It is, isn't it?" The lawyer did that small stalking thing lawyers do. "My client, along with many others, is standing trial because of evidence you've collected, names you've written down, people you've seen and recognised. Do you... see people often?"

She swallowed. "Define... seeing."

The lawyer smirked. "Do you see people that aren't there, miss Holmes?"

She let out a long nasal sigh and rolled her eyes. "Yes."

"How come, miss Holmes?"

"I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was five." She shrugged. "I've been _seeing people,_ as you put it, ever since I can remember. Something's simply wired the wrong way up here." She tapped her temple.

"Is it possible that you... _imagined_ your interactions with my client?"

She forced her face to go blank, hide the anger starting to simmer inside of her. "Are you asking if I had a psychosis, sir?"

"Maybe. Did you?"

"Maybe I did." She glared at the man. "Maybe the past five years of my life were _all_ just in my imagination, maybe this web of lies that my brain spun is fooling us all, coming up with names and faces that I've never seen before that just _so happen to be_ hiding prisoners in their basements just so my subconscious could take revenge on your client."

The judge groaned. " _Doctor Holmes._ "

"Apologies."

The judge quirked a brow, clearly not believing it was sincere. "Just answer his questions, _please._ "

She leaned back. " _No,_ I didn't have a psychosis."

The lawyer stared at her for long moments. "Very well. Then what reason could you have to _insult_ my client with baseless accusations like you did? You _abused_ your position of power to bring this man down _for no reas-_ "

"Shut up." She stood, glaring at the man and resisting the urge to vault over the pieces of wood separating them. "You just shut the fuck up. This man is a _monster_ , is proven to be one, and the only defence you have is trying to convince the star witness she's insane! Well, Mr Bachelor-older-than-he-wants-to-look-second-hand-suit-because-of-gambling-debt, _that_ was ascertained when I was ten. And when I was twenty-nine, your _client_ stuck his _dick_ down my lady parts after tying me down with the rags of the clothes he'd ripped off of my _drugged_ and _helpless_ body! So _for fuck's sakes_ , shut _up_!" She stopped fighting the urge and jumped to the ground, landing smoothly and stalking over to that hated face, that face that turned less smug with every step she took, more scared with every meter she closed in on him.

" _You_." She growled, "You _sick_ monster! I should've listened to Mycroft, let him do to you what you did to me before he made you disappear! I said you _deserved_ a fair trial, _said_ it was the least he could do, and then _you_ come and hire the most _shitty_ _shithead_ lawyer who thinks that _intimidating_ the witness is a _valid_ strategy! I should've left you to _die_ when-"

" _DOCTOR_ _HOLMES!_ "

 

***

 

The heavy door opened to reveal a very amused Interpol agent leaning in the doorway.

"They had to remove you." He chuckled as he sauntered into the cell. "Indecent behaviour, the judge said."

She shrugged. "I was simply describing the case. I can't help it that the case involved explicit sexual behaviour." She smirked as he moved even closer and wrapped his arms around her.

"I love you."

"You keep saying that." She frowned and rested her cheek against his chest.

"I mean it." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Come on, Mycroft's got a car waiting outside. Something about a Chinese ambassador trying to flee the country."

She stepped away from him. "I'm going on a mission?"

He nodded, smirking. "We're going on a mission."

"We are." She hugged him again. "Together."

He chuckled. "If you think I'm ever letting you go on a solo mission ever again, you're _very_ wrong."

She let out a giggle. "Myc would kill you."

"I'd kill me." He hugged her waist. "Come on, let's take down some baddies."

"Right." She didn't let him go. "What about Seb?"

"Twenty-five years." His voice darkened a bit. "That fucker's never getting out of prison."

"Good." She allowed him to lead her out of the cell.

 

"Could we... play some Louis Armstrong in the car?"

"I hate blues."

"I know."

 

"I love you, too."

 

***

 

I see trees of green, red roses too  
I see them bloom for me and you  
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.  
  
I see skies of blue and clouds of white  
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred nights  
And I think to myself what a wonderful world.  
  
The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky  
Are also on the faces of people going by  
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do  
They're really saying I love you.  
  
I hear babies crying, I watch them grow  
They'll learn much more than I'll ever knew  
And I think to myself what a wonderful world  
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story! Please let me know what you thought of it, and leave a message at [my ask box](blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) if you have an idea for a next story I could write. Have a nice day! :)


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